


I know how much you want me

by Baryshnikov



Series: Spoiled Fruit [4]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Asphyxiation, Dom/sub Undertones, Hand & Finger Kink, Implied Sexual Content, Kinda, M/M, Masturbation, Mirrors, Possessive Tom Riddle, Power Dynamics, Sort Of, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-07
Updated: 2019-12-07
Packaged: 2021-02-26 15:41:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21700573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baryshnikov/pseuds/Baryshnikov
Summary: Tom liked to watch.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle
Series: Spoiled Fruit [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1616770
Comments: 3
Kudos: 257





	I know how much you want me

**Author's Note:**

> This is explicit, I don't tend to write explicits, but it's late, I'm ill, and I'm definitely not thinking straight; take from that what you will about the quality of this fic.

People were… fascinating. 

Perhaps it sounded alien to refer to them like that, after all, Tom himself was a person, and yet, he didn’t always feel like one. Sometimes he felt like something else entirely; a creature beyond human comprehension but dressed up like a human being. A people skin of sorts.

But, then again, he wasn’t just ordinary, was he?

There was something special in his veins; he could feel it all the time running its course, not just in his blood, but _everywhere_ inside him. It rattled in his skull, and curled around his bones, and burrowed through the layers of his skin. There wasn’t an inch of him that wasn’t imbued with something _extraordinary_. 

And that was fantastic, wasn’t it?

To be so _beyond_ the mundane. 

Tom rolled his shoulders and sighed; he’d been sitting still for too long and all his muscles were starting to stiffen like they were encased in concrete. He stretched, shoulder blades pushed back, and his ribcage spread wide, the air felt good in his lungs even though it was the same air he’d been breathing in ever since he got home this evening.

Though, _maybe_ , the air was heavier than it had been. 

More syrupy, perhaps; thicker, like he was breathing underwater. He could almost feel the oxygen as he breathed; viscous in his throat and sticky on his skin. And _all_ because of the sight before him. That frankly _delectable_ picture that had him shifting in his seat more than he would like. 

Tom swallowed. 

Without thinking, he began to crack his knuckles, pressing at them one at a time and waiting from the snap like a branch in a forest somewhere behind you. It was a bad habit, and one Malfoy constantly chastised him for, saying it was terribly improper, but it was also addictive. One perfect crack after another was something he chased, something he craved for its simplicity.

And for the way that it made Harry wince.

Even now, when Harry was rather… _distracted_ , each little crack caused a shiver to run as a wave down his spine, and his eyelids fluttered. Despite the less than brilliant lighting and the glaze layered as thick as honey over Harry’s pupils, Tom could still see them refocus on him.

Or rather on his fingers. 

Tom had first noticed a month or two ago. Harry’s strange fixation with his hands had puzzled him at first, but now, _oh now_ , it was such a lovely little fixation. There were things he’d learnt to do slower because of it, to press and push and wrap his hands around, well, anything really, but he had his favourites. 

The throat was currently Tom’s most _beloved_ thing to wrap his finger around, more specifically, Harry’s throat. Never enough to maim him because maiming without purpose was no fun, but _always_ enough that Harry’s pulse would begin to throb, and each breath would be husky and as rough as sandpaper. 

Tom stretched out his hand over his thighs. The white of his skin almost painful against the black of his slacks; the combination was rather like when he got his hands into Harry’s hair, white on black like a star in the void of space. But he was too far away to touch, and that was how it was _supposed_ to be, at least, in the beginning. 

One of the most _valuable_ skills Tom possessed, in his own opinion that was, was patience. The ability to sit as a spider does and simply _wait_ for the right moment to engender itself in his presence. That wasn’t to say, he was above forcing a consequence or two and making time go faster when it suited it, rather, ultimately slow and steady did tend to win the race. 

Harry was the opposite. 

With him, everything had to be so fast, so instantaneous. It was a disease so chronic that it permeated itself into every inch of his life. For instance, Harry preferred ready-meals to actually cooking dinner because cooking took too long, he preferred being a seeker because it involved near-constant movement, he preferred sex in the shower because it was time-limited.

Needless to say, they’d clashed more than a little since they’d begun to assimilate their lives. Though, Tom would like to think that they had now found an… equilibrium of sorts; that perfect balance between what _he_ wanted and what Harry _needed_ , whether he’d realised it or not. 

Now though, Harry seemed to be starting to get the idea; at least, that was the impression conveyed by those tight breaths and glossy eyes. 

Tom smiled and clicked his tongue. The sound was harsher than any of the sounds made by the seat, and it immediately drew Harry’s eyes up towards his mouth. Tom licked his lips, and, quite subconsciously, he imagined, Harry imitated the act until his mouth was shiny and wet.

He looked good. 

And Tom wondered, not for the first time, whether Harry was still confused as to why they needed both a bed and an armchair in the bedroom when they apparently performed the same role; or whether he had more… pressing matters on his mind now. 

Anyway, this chair was nice. Leather that made a noise whenever he moved; either a slick slide when he shifted his hips or his back, or this faint patter when he tapped his fingers. Of course, it was a little worn now, the first cracks appearing at the base and around the legs where he repeatedly rested the heel of his shoe, but Tom had an unenviable attachment to it.

There were memories in this chair.

Memories of things that had passed in its presence.

Things that were still passing. 

As if amplify the point, Harry groaned. The sound cut through the otherwise quiet room, somehow sounding twice as obscene that way, and, maybe it was. Maybe it was the sort of sound that would have got in trouble with the landlady a decade ago. Fortunately, they had no such worries here; Tom could do whatever he liked without _anyone_ interrupting. 

Hence, Tom let his eyes wander over to the bed, never hurrying, after all, it wasn’t like Harry was going anywhere any time soon. On it was a rather nice display, but Tom wouldn’t have it any less than _perfect_. And that was why he sat there, a good few feet from the exploit itself, but the distance was good, necessary even. From here Tom could play choreographer, and director, and producer; he could make Harry do what he wanted without having to use his hands. 

So, despite Harry’s grievances, and he had many which he vocalised regularly, the current set up was what was staying; including Tom’s chair and Tom’s mirror. Of course, he’d moved the latter in here on the pretence of his own narcissism, and maybe that was the origin of this particular inclination, but he didn’t tend to muse on it. 

All that mattered was the mirror, that great, wide thing framed in wood, continued to hang opposite the bed. And continued to show everything that happened there, reflecting it back in such perfectly devasting clarity for both himself and for Harry. 

This was, after all, for both of them to enjoy. 

For Harry to _admire_ himself in the same way that Tom admired him, and, for Tom to be able to see _just_ how Harry looked at him. How wide those gorgeous eyes could get, and the exact arrangement of Harry’s facial muscles when Tom’s hand was wrapped around his throat.

Those were the things that couldn’t be appreciated from any other angle.

Though, the angle he was currently watching from certainly wasn’t _bad_. At first, Tom had experimented with the exact positioning he wanted; the distance from the bed, the perspective that would get him best view, even the height of the chair made a difference. 

Tom shifted, sitting up straighter as he watched. 

He had come to find that a side view was the best. From here, he could see how Harry’s back arched, how his left hand came down to rest of the mattress, to steady him. From here, he could admire the curve of his neck and the parting of his lips. The light and the space and the shadows of a masterpiece painted centuries ago. 

For now, that darkness settled like dust on Harry’s shoulder, speckled of all over his back and up along his arms as though some careless artist had flicked his brush across the scene. But there was light too; a warmth cast the lights, they reflected off the walls and somehow made this whole room glow in pink and orange and yellow.

It was as flattering as it was libidinous. 

Tom shifted again, this time wetting his mouth. 

Harry made quite the centrepiece for that composition, sitting there, undressed, thighs parted as though he was spread over someone’s lap and his right hand was gripping at his cock; his thumb rubbing lightly over the head with a touch too much eagerness, and not quite enough poise. But that was easily corrected.

“Harry,” he said soft and low, making sure to take his sweet time with Harry’s name. It was one of his favourite words to let roll all over his tongue and blur with the back of his throat. Harry tensed, his hand or a moment stilling. “Harry,” Tom repeated, “touch yourself slower.”

Harry whined and dropped his head forward, hair falling in his eyes and his hand still moving too quickly, chasing a feeling he didn’t yet deserve.  
“Harry,” he said, sharper this time; the edge of each letter honed to a point that would strike where it was needed most, “I said, touch yourself _slower_.”

Tom continued to watch as a flush spread itself further down Harry’s neck before threading itself between the bones at his shoulders. It seemed to bring a calmness with it and Harry’s hand stuttered but didn’t stop, evidently still a little torn between doing what Tom wanted and what _he_ wanted. 

That was never a good sign. 

Tom sighed and flexed his hand again; it felt too early to be getting involved. But, then again, he cast his eyes down from the tip of Harry’s chin, along the tautness of his back, and the rigidity of his arms, right down to the painfully slow strokes down the rosy length of his cock. 

He got up.

After first, Tom stretched, letting each joint click in the silence, after all, it was never good to appear _too_ willing. But then he stepped forward, walking the few steps towards the bed. Perhaps, if anyone viewed it objectively, they would call him theatrical for insisting on the clack of his shoes against the wood; but the sound was quite necessary. 

It built up tension. 

Reminded Harry what he’d gotten himself into. 

The bed dipped under his weight and Harry nearly lost his balance and fell onto his back, but before he could, Tom’s hands were heavy against his shoulders, holding him still. Tom sighed, and took his time to run the very tips of his fingers all over Harry’s skin; just light caresses that must have felt like static electricity, finally providing an outlet to all that pent up aggravation that Harry was so prone to. 

He really did need to learn to relax.

But that was what Tom was for. 

Ever so gently he stroked a hand up the back of Harry’s neck, pressing heavily against the skin as he pushed into Harry’s hairline and, gripping the tips of his curls, Tom pulled Harry’s head up, curving his neck back until his chin was raised. “I want you to look at yourself, Harry.”

Harry’s eyes stayed squeezed shut and tipped his head back.

For a moment, Tom cast eyes to the mirror; to the precise image that he so wanted Harry to admire. It started as a flush trailing like poison ivy from his chest to around his neck, and there it dappled between the tendons and the muscles and the bones, before smoothing out as thick as cream all over his cheeks. 

“I want you to see what I see,” he continued, mouthing slowly at Harry’s neck but keeping his eyes on the mirror’s reflection.

Tom slid his hand out of Harry’s hair and instead let it slither around to his throat, carefully moulding itself around the bones and the muscles that lay below the surface of his skin, like rocks beneath the waves. This was one the times where it was so obvious that they were _supposed_ to be together, as Tom’s hand fitted better around Harry’s throat than anyone else’s. “I just want you to see what _I_ do to you,” he said softly. 

“How desperate I make you,” he murmured against Harry’s ear, just as gripped tighter at his throat; his thumb pushing into the artery and his palm pressing hard into Harry’s trachea. While it pained him to do so, Tom reduced the pressure _just_ before Harry choked, though he did not remove his hand.

Rather, he kept it wrapped around Harry’s neck, his thumb smoothing over the pulse point in much the same was as Harry continued to thumb at the tip of his cock. 

“How _needy_.”

Tom squeezed at Harry’s throat again, feeling the throbbing underneath his fingers and all the other micromovements that so defined the line between human suffering and human pleasure. The inward curving of Harry’s spine and the desperate shifting of his hips and the straining of his thighs, and, of course, the rapid breathing, all frayed at the edge like used cloth.

But Harry’s eyes were still scrunched shut, even when Tom curled his spare hand around his waist, his palm heavy against Harry’s hipbone. For a minute his hand stayed there as a pressure, an undeniable presence, and equally, an undeniable promise. Then, ever so slowly, he began to move, to trace his fingers along the length of Harry’s thigh and back up, before coiling around Harry’s wrist and guiding his hand, each finger becoming a puppet to his wants.

“Come on, Harry,” Tom said softly, his mouth right on the edge of his jaw, just below the lobe of his ear. “You know you want to,” he continued twisting his wrist and with it, Harry’s hand until he groaned, and his mouth fell open, and there was no other noise in the room but his breathless pants.

And still, he didn’t open his eyes.

Tom clenched his jaw, teeth grinding together; Harry could be exceptionally frustrating sometimes. “I want you to look,” Tom said, this time biting at each syllable as though his tongue could lace each one with arsenic. “But, if you don’t, well… I’m sure I can find another way to _entertain_ myself,” he said, simultaneously slowing the slide of his and Harry’s hands, and tightening his grip around Harry’s throat.

He pushed himself closer to Harry; making sure the buttons of his shirt rubbed rough against Harry's spine, and his sleeves, rolled up to his elbows, scratched on Harry’s skin, and simply the heat of his body wrapped around Harry’s own like he was precious object swathed in tissue paper. 

“You know,” he said, feeling Harry’s hips shifting involuntarily against him, “I’ll have just as much _fun_ either way.” Tom glanced over at the mirror and watched the furrow in Harry’s brow, and the obvious tensing of every muscle, and the way his hair was just sticking to his forehead, all whilst still smothered with this pink honey glow.

Harry opened his eyes. 

And Tom couldn’t help but smile, “see,” he said, his hand loosening from around Harry’s throat and instead, sliding upward to hold his chin in place, “that wasn’t so bad, was it?”  
Harry nodded, though he continued to bite his lip too hard, leaving behind deep indents in the skin, and his hand continued to falter as though this were all simply too much for him.

It wasn’t.

They both knew that. 

So, Tom leant in. “Now,” he murmured, coming close enough to kiss at the corner of Harry’s mouth, “tell me how much you love me.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sure these are starting to get dull, and I'm sure I'll stop writing them soon; in the meantime, I apologise for whatever this was.


End file.
